Still on the subject of revision- Shorten that poem

 

Preparing a new volume of poems I am revisiting the old ones, many published on the blog. The Butter Road is one of these. It's not always a question of just shortening the poem but sometimes it is!

THE BUTTER ROAD

 

I'd say the road hasn't changed much two centuries on, 

still mossy- stoned underfoot, the ponies hooves must have sank 

in the ruts like ours, booted and sandal shod. I warned him 

about the terrain but he's fond of the pilgrim way though this

is no spiritual path. Here men and ponies toiled a week long return 

from Mizen head to Skibbereen to the Cork  Butter Exchange, loaded 

with two firkins of salted butter, thirty- six pounds apiece, bound 

for Spain and the West Indies and beyond, while we shuffle 

a lightweight backpack between us, water, chocolate- snacks 

for a day trek, stop to frame straggling fuchsia, burnished fern, a cottage

embalmed in ivy and bramble, and the so-called "idle bridge," 

built as relief work during the famine, leading nowhere, shouldering

failed hopes and bones, and listen to the same birds, the long-tailed tit flitting

from limb to limb, the rook setting up a din as we, in passing, disturb

those best left to rest in peace.

 

More of a prose poem

Here is the revision:

Mossy-stoned underfoot, the ponies hooves

 must have sank in the ruts

where they toiled a week long return 

from Mizen head to Skibbereen

to the Cork  Butter Exchange,

loaded with two firkins of salted butter,

thirty- six pounds apiece,

bound for Spain and the West Indies and beyond,

while we shuffle a lightweight backpack between us,

 stop to frame straggling fuchsia, burnished fern,

a cottage embalmed in bramble,

and the so-called "idle bridge," 

relief work during the famine,

leading nowhere, shouldering

failed hopes and bones.

 

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

Revising poetry drafts

 

Revising an earlier draft of your poems is an interesting process. I originally called this poem The Killing Field and it relates to a scene witnessed in  my back garden. The new draft is shorter and I think more effective. A new shape of the poem on the page started to emerge and I decided to play with that. 

The early title also probably conjures up that 1984 British Biographical drama film set in Cambodia. 

Titles matter and I often struggle with them.

 If the poem is meant to surprise you don't want to give too much away. 

However they can be a tad esoteric!!

And there is a practice these days of long titles like : To the boy who nearly won the Tesco Art Competition. Love that!

The Blackbird

 

His head tilted to the thrum of earthworm

He didn’t notice a shadow

hug the ground, or hear

the wing swoop propel 

the raptor forward

 

its long tail fanned out to break speed

 

The last thing

the blackbird saw

was the hawk’s yellow eyes

fixed in a deadly stare, before claws

descend, before shorn feathers blacken the air.

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

 

The original poem below

The Killing Field

He would have had his head tilted listening for earthworms.

He wouldn't have noticed a shadow hugging the ground

or heard the short wings swooping the air 

propelling the raptor forward, its long tail fanned out 

to break speed.

The last thing the blackbird saw was the yellow eyed sparrow hawk

fixing it in a deadly stare before claws descending 

left shorn feathers blacken the air.

What we saw looking out our kitchen window

was a hooked beak delve into bird skull 

and strong yellow legs pin their prey to the ground.

It was too late to save the songster 

and probably unwise.

Concerning Emily Dickinson and That Fly

 

I hear a Fly buzz when I sit-

To meditate- and think of Emily

And how- put out she may

have been- when that Blue-

Stumbling fly- immortalised 

In her Poem-591

Interposed between her-

And Eternity.

Today-Someone would tell her-

It was doing her a Favour-

Keeping her present-

In the Present-

Where she still was-after all-

But I get it-Emily-

The darn Drone of it

Would turn a dying Saint-

Into a Murderer-

Or at least- a Fly Catcher-

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2026

Playing at Rodin's Thinker

 

The West Coast of Ireland is the place to be

if you want to ponder the meaning of life

for here there are no distractions to withstand.

And though I am now sitting in a bungalow

in a capital suburban sprawl-

No Atlantic swell to throw up

flotsam-jetsam wisdom from the deep.

No howling onshore wind crumbling the waves.

No sea mist veiling and unveiling the Skelligs

and its story of viking raids and monastic contemplation.

Just the DPD fellow making another delivery

and a woman out walking her reluctant schnauzer

and a great kerfuffle in the back kitchen

where the cat has just dragged

a fledgling magpie through the cat flap

and is now beginning to regret his bravado.

Making me, right elbow placed on left thigh,

back of right hand supporting chin,

ponder the folly of instinct

untempered by foresight.

Self Publish your poetry- your story

 

At last I have published a small collection of poems.

Available from Amazon.

Footprints by Cathy Leonard

I used Reedsy.com to typeset and the Amazon cover creator for the book cover. 

See my blog Self Publish 28th October 2024 regarding self publishing.

The theme of this collection is home. I grew up in Northern Ireland during the fifties and sixties. The troubles were already brewing during my childhood and finally erupted onto the streets in '68. On August 24th I attended the first civil rights march from Coalisland, my father's home town, to Dungannon where we lived in a council estate. In fact I remember, as a school girl, delivering leaflets advertising the event.

The aim of the march was to highlight discrimination in housing allocation in our area. Follow link below for the full story.

https://www.irishtimes.com/news/politics/the-lost-story-of-northern-ireland-s-first-civil-rights-march-1.3605463

Here is a piece on the subject written as a sort of Haibun

A Haibun is a Japanese genre that mixes autobiographical writing with Haiku.

Five pointers

KEEP PROSE SIMPLE

USE SPARSE IMAGERY

EVOKE THE SENSES

USE THE PRESENT TENSE

THE HAIKU/S CAN BE INSERTED ANYWHERE BUT SHOULD ADD MEANING

 https://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-haibun-poetry

https://www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-a-haiku-in-4-easy-steps#quiz-0

THE SKIPPING ROPE

 

It is a mean spirited town. At its heart the burnt out remains of O’Neill’s Castle  smoulder.

 

scorched earth policy

employed throughout history

our culture erased.

 

Centuries later and the town cry is still, “No Surrender!” 

 

Buildings have eyes. As I stand at McAleer’s corner eating Pagni’s chips out of vinegar sodden  newspaper, watching cats in the family hotel basement window, I feel their presence. Panoptic surveillance emanating from the RUC barracks at the top of the Square, bolstered by the Ulster bank beside it, and higher up

 

British armoured towers,

iron clad, cube shaped set to watch

we the occupied.

 

In 1968 the town is a battle ground flanked on two sides by council housing estates: the Ponderosa and the White City, pebble dashed rows and blocks built at right angles to each other on low lying bogs, inhabited by the poorest of both denominations who qualified for these after doing time in the vacated POW camp out the Moy Road.  Working class protestants occupy more salubrious zones to the south, Milltown and Moygashel, where red brick industrial cottages nestle at the foot of the Windmill Hill or around the linen factory, Dungannon’s industrial sector.

 

Bigotry runs deep in the runnels, in the rills, in the streams and the air we breathe will soon smell of metal and burning flesh. The town is tense

 

like a skipping rope

strung tight between two players

Irish and Scottish

 

 And we wait for one of them to tighten grip or loosen hold.

 

 Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

Ashes

 Following my recent impulsive request

that my ashes be flung

into the cove just below Blake's Drum

I began to wonder where

I might end up.

If  I dodged the jellyfish

and their stinging tentacles

in the Sunlight Zone

I might make it to Twilight

where octopus and sponges

would surely ingest some of me.

The rest dropping to Midnight

Where I could circumnavigate

the great wreck of the Titanic before falling 

into the freezing depths of the Abyss

and the clutches of the sea spider.

And finally if I made it,

or some of me anyway,

I would end up in the Trenches

Challenger Deep.

And after all this diving and dodging 

and conflicting messaging from my inner ear and brain

I'm thinking that a land burial might suit me better after all. 

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

The Disappearing Skelligs

(On reading Billy Collins at the edge of the ocean)

Since I sat down with my stylus 

and unwaxed tablet

the Skelligs have appeared

 and disappeared several times.

Perhaps off on a space mission

with Hans Solo or Luke Skywalker in control.

Maybe circling the globe

at 17,500 miles an hour,

(don't ask me what that is in kilometres)

The fastest moving islands in history

passing over our heads

once every ninety minutes.

And here they are back again

looking just a tad outraged at my speculations

As if they haven't just now

in low earth orbit

witnessed sixteen sunrises

and sunsets

just for the hell of it.

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2026

House Sitting

 

 

House sitting for a friend in Tuosist

I awake before you to enjoy an hour or two

of creative bliss, if it happens to arrive,

and admire a panoramic slice of Kerry-

burgeoning rhododendron, sunflower-yellow whin

fields uninterrupted by high rise,

except for the distant peaks of the reeks

that etch a crooked trail across the sky.

 

And via WhatsApp I tell my friend in San Sebastian,

whose house I am sitting,

to look out for the dude wearing the traditional txapela

finger- thinned to a peak at the front

speaking Basque to his retriever and the waiter

while sipping his café solo.

 

And that I have researched the history of her house

and find that it was indeed a dispensary

doleing out physic and herbs

to the rural poor of the townland in 1856.

 

And that I have travelled even further back in time,

to the Bronze Age, in fact,

for here in Tuosist there are eight stone circles

and a plethora of fulachta fias, cooking pits of the deer.

 

And so I have imagined myself a bronze age dude

gathering stones the size of baby’s head,

heating them white hot and dropping them in a water pit,

now bubbling to a rolling boil, to cook my straw wrapped venison,

twenty minutes to the pound and 20 minutes extra.

 

At which point I begin to wonder

if you are ever going to get up

so that we can put on the kettle for tea

and maybe boil our eggs

three minutes each

and not a second longer.

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2026

Gifting Socks

 

The Problem of Gifting Socks

 

When it comes to the subject of socks

and who gets the pair

I’ve just rolled off the assembly line

it’s not always a question of Que sera, sera.

 

Privately I cross my fingers and my five needles

for a recipient who will appreciate my long hours

spent at the coalface with my double pointed tools.

Someone who is perhaps in need of a foot-lift

or at least celebrating a propitious moment

or serendipitously just happens to call by

 

To be gifted with a Blue Lagoon or a Silent Night

or a Peacock, a Kingfisher or  Wild Pheasant

not to mention a Rainbow or a Norse God.

(For the wool merchant’s market-speak stretches wide these days.)

 

 I could just hoard them in a basket

to be gift wrapped and labelled at Christmas time-

For there’s Nutmeg and Hollyberry and even Mulled Wine.

 

But they are like hot coals in my hand

devices about to explode,

or to put it more benignly,

hot loaves fresh from the oven.

In short- products to be launched at speed,

with or without the hype.

 

But I do need to think twice about those Norse gods

before I roll out that line.

For who wants to wear the hammer wielding Thor

or the wolf giant Skoll on their feet

doomed to relentless war mongrelling

or chasing the sun goddess across the sky?

 

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2026. All rights reserved.

Staying Dumb

 

Staying Dumb

 

After forty years of marriage

sometimes we run out of things to say.

 

That’s when I share with you the trivia of my day.

 

The cat nearly caught a mouse.

That bee in the honeywort sounds like a radio station off- frequency.

 

A practice that is not reciprocal.

 

So when we were wandering

down that unknown road in Kerry,

you way ahead when I noticed it,

 

Ardea Gardens- Enter at your own risk!

 

(more like a dare than a warning

what with the exclamation mark and all,

one that I would have liked to take

one that you might have liked to take too)

 

I decided to stay dumb.

 

And likewise further on when I saw

the Children Playing sign stuck in a bank

up a country lane on that unknown road,

stipulating a maximum speed of 10 MPH,

 

I decided to stay dumb again

 

But later when you were proceeding down a slipway

in order to reach the gallery

ignoring the warning to take off your shoes at high tide,

I decided it was time to alert you

 

To that spume creeping steadily upward

 

And that’s when I also told you

about our missed adventure in Ardea Gardens

and my speculations on the purpose of those Children Playing

 

and even went back to the subject of that bee….

 

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2026

On the death of a beloved pet

 

No Way Around but Through

I walked around the park for two decades 

before you came along

showing me a more inward trail.

The copse where the wren mostly prevail,

the spot most likely to pipe with song thrush,

the trees whose boles cupped water for you to sup,

the ridge across the pitch that afforded a dry foot crossing.

You always did a twirl around the goal posts

where we always turned for home.

Your tail sweep-swinging, your stride high-stepping,

sure-footed now on the return leg.

I tried to walk around the park today.

But it's too late for that now.

And so, I let the tears fall

retrace, retrieve and recall

you in your heyday leaping

and in your latter day stumbling

but always bringing me into

the heart of the matter.

                                                                  MOLLY -2012-2026

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

The High Jump

When he appeared beside me,

apparently out of thin air,

skimming across the surface 

as if landing on the moon-

a graceful glide, kicking up no star dust,

I had to concede how superior to us

these creatures are. 

No need for a Fosbury flop or Eastern cut off or scissors

as he rises to a height ten times his own.

Just a feet first straight on approach,

assessing his task from the floor pad with a slight tilt of  his ears

and then a back leg spring that catapults him into mid air-

rather like a rocket launch than a high jump...

Our cat jumping onto the kitchen table

Copyright 2026 Cathy Leonard

HISTORY OF THE HIGH JUMP

Self Published- Second Novel

I have just self published my second novel. Like my first it lay in a shoe box for a decade or two until I found the self publishing course. 

HUNTED-In Search of the Cathar Treasure grew out of two things.

1. I had just read about the fifth Crusade in thirteenth century France- the persecution of a group of people called Albigensians   who were deemed heretics by the Catholic Church at that time.

The heretics seemed to me to be a likeable sort of people who eschewed many of the conventional values of the day. They lived a simple  life, They travelled in pairs, worked often as weavers and were taken in by the locals in the Languedoc region in France. 

The Albigensians, known later in history as the Cathars, were deemed to be heretics by the Church in Rome. The heresy hinged upon their principle of Good and Evil. Albigensians believed that the world was the creation of the forces of darkness and that little attention should be paid to worldly authority. This impacted on the power of church and state.

 They found followers, credentes, in the prosperous area of the Languedoc which was at the time a lively hub of merchant trade and politically not under the control of the King of France.

Parallel to the growth of Albigensian doctrines was the rise of the troubadour poetry. It was here that the performance of troubadours thrived.

This novel is set in the Languedoc at this critical period of its history. The main characters are fictitious but references are made to historical figures.

 2. I was taking a creative writing workshop at the time and a character popped into my head or more pointedly to the tip of my pen. His name was Nicolas, he was a troubadour and he was witnessing the burning at the stake of a group of Cathars.

After that the story morphed somewhat and I traced Nicolas's origins back to a scene in Beziers 1209. Here he presented as a child escaping from a burning city that was being sacked by Church and state.

At the sacking of Bezier in 1209, 20, 000 Catholics and Albigensians were slaughtered following the infamous catchphrase attributed to Arnauld Amaury, “Kill them all. God will know his own.”

So began the Albigensian Crusade, 1209-1229 launched by Pope Innocent 111, and led by Simon de Montfort, a skilful warrior under the approving eye of Arnauld Amaury, head of the Cistercian order.

It is a shocking story. 

Later in time it was believed that the Cathars had in their possession the Holy Grail. 

The novel is available on Amazon platforms.

HUNTED- a novel by Cathy Leonard

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catharism

https://www.frenchviews.com.au/my-journal/montsgur-and-the-cathars

 

Encounters with an AI

 It's hard not to encounter AI these days

for he/she/it pops up on every google search.

Competition for Wiki - though not asking for a donation.

Just Trust - Complete Trust.

But when I key in bakeayarn, my blog title,

which to be fair is a bit obtuse 

and has probably led to many misdirected hits

from followers who expect recipes and knitting patterns,

I am surprised at the results.

For AI prefaces its response

in a classic case of prevarication, 

declaring my query as not standard

and qualifying its deliberation

as likely to refer to:

And I find not me, but suggestions

for putting yarn into a low oven to kill off pests,

mostly beetles, and by low does he/she/it mean

near the ground or low in temperature?

(A bit vague to inspire Complete Trust.)

And/or I am prompted to  make a cake with my messy yarn

by winding it in a flat circle to prevent tangle.

Either way, all said and done, it seems that baking yarn, according to AI,

is a method of establishing order and eliminating  problems,

which is not at all what I have in mind when writing a poem,

for throwing up uncertainty,paradox, and creating a certain amount

of obfuscation is indeed the goal of much poetry.

But perhaps by purporting to know it all,

albeit with some equivocation,

while disseminating confusion

AI is a bit of a modern poet after all.

Copyright 2025 Cathy Leonard

God Speed

In memory of Manchán Magan

 

My candle flickers against a backdrop

of white beam shaking its boughs

Trees toss and bow all over Ireland

doors rattle and the wind roars

We are battered by the 99 shades of rain

that he spoke of, 

and still one sun shines

It is no wonder, we say,

for a great soul is passing

His transition would be brief, he foretold

He asked for no blessings the last time he spoke

But here we are

lighting candles, whispering prayers, remembering 

wishing him God speed on his way home

Go dtéir slán,Manchán

Copyright 2025 Cathy Leonard

Overview- Manchán Magan

https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/2025/09/14/ninety-nine-words-for-rain-in-irish-could-it-actually-be-true/

Pet Tails and Tales

 

Have published  a little volume about our three pets. The stories are partly true and somewhat embellished.  Sherlock and Molly have featured in my blog over the years and now have a little book of their own.

Gussy gull is at it again! Call the Musketeers!

 Snatching ducklings from the pond is his favourite pastime but the reputation of seagulls is at stake. If only Sally, Ma and Molly, the black red setter would just get off his case…..

 Meanwhile…

 Sherlock, the one-eyed Moggy, is on the lookout for a Forever Home. So long as it ticks all his boxes: ham on demand, turkey slices, unlimited TV viewing time…..

 While…

Curtains, the alpha male ginger, is left Home Alone and has to tackle the burglars himself…

 Enjoy the escapades and wrangles that follow when the three musketeers get going…

Available on Amazon.Pet Tales

Schull-Mizen Peninsula

Here is a short poem inspired by a friend's art collection and written during a short visit to Schull. While it is now a thriving community Schull suffered hardship during the Great Famine years. 

https://skibbereenhistorical.ie/letter-written-by-dr-traill-describing-dreadful-conditions-in-schull-in-1847/

With its well annotated signboards The Fastnet Trails will not only lead you into the hills and glens around the village but also into the past. 

https://fastnet-trails.com/about-us/

  Schull library is also a vital source of information on the history of the area and at the moment is exhibiting the work of local artist Kathleen Kelly Reardon.

Instagram:kathleenkellyreardonart

https://fastnet-trails.com/fastnet-trailheads/schull-trailhead/

 

A CENTURY APART

for Liz

In the past we stood outside a casement window,

opaque, net veiled, set deep in stones

hand cupped and interlaced

light reflecting off limewash-

none penetrating the darkness within

Today we sit inside a casement

before a cosy breakfast spread

bright light from without dappling

teacup and saucer and homemade cake 

and the morning news and a vase of daffodils,

and the promise of Spring

Copyright Cathy Leonard 2025 All rights reserved

OUR SKIES-OUR SAY- NO TO DRONES

It is with alarm that I hear of the expansion of commercial drones across our airspace. 30,000 of them projected to pollute every city in Europe by 2030. And it appears to be a done deal, a question of reaching agreement about regulation- for apparently at the moment there is none. 

I would personally call for a referendum across the country on this issue. 

Our roads, our rivers, our seas are polluted in the name of so called progress and commercial enterprise. It is surely time to call a halt.....

Dublin 15 has been the testing ground for Manna Enterprise and a local petition has been drawn up by their Labour party councillor, John Walsh, to call for action in this area. For further info follow link bellow.

https://www.change.org/p/our-skies-our-say-restrict-drones-in-dublin-15-now

The word manna, by the way, comes from the Hebrew Man hu meaning- what is it? What indeed? 

And the bible describes manna as a divine gift and a symbol of God's provision- a far cry from the take-a-ways projected to fall from our skies in the near future.

Dirge for a lost world

In the time before the drones

we could look up to the sky

and see the sun rising 

and watch the clouds fly by.

In the time before the drones

moon and stars were on display-

gibbous, waxing, waning moods

and night skies' stellar array.

In the time before the drones

birdsong filled our ears

the blackbird, thrush and robin

flutes and trills allaying fears.

In the time before the drone

there was peace over this land

the only drone the sound of bees

sipping nectar from our flowers.

It's too late now to go back.

We have lost that peace and find

that the time before the drone

is a memory lost in time.

Copyright 2025 Cathy Leonard

Four Letters of Love-Review

 

What is it about Rotten Tomatoes, the arbiter of the fate of many a movie? Its verdict on the movie Four letters of love at 39% described as “too introspective and disjointed” (in reference to what exactly? ) is mean spirited  and unimaginative.  

The movie has its faults but the story is not one of them. Williams reminds me of the great South American writers like Jose Garcia Marquez who was hailed as someone who stunned, moved, seduced and transformed with his magical realism. Or consider the beautiful film Like water for Chocolate likewise haunting in its magical realism.

 

This is a love story where characters follow, call it the voice of God, their hearts or the dictates of fate. Apparent coincidence which turns out to be destiny is to the fore, like it was in Hardy’s fiction or in  Greek tragedy. Viewers who consider the plot unlikely or depressing have already failed to identify the genre.

 

The acting like the story is deeply heart felt. The scenery breath taking, though that aspect irritated some viewers as well. No body complained when Skellig Micheal in Star Wars was depicted as a mythical Jedi temple.

 

I concede that the musical score was at times for me intrusive and took away from the narrative. The script has its own musical cadence and did not need such embellishment. Accents were dubious at times and the aran jumpers far too new and gorgeous for 1970s Irish islanders. But these aspects of the production did not take away from the overall effect of the film.

 

It is a step into a world where the dictates of heart and soul triumph, where the human journey is depicted in all its soul searching rawness. It is a film that explores the challenging and tortuous search for love.

 

Come on Rotten Tomatoes let go to the magical realism of it.

Copyright 2025 Cathy Leonard

First Novel- Self Published

 

My first novel is finally published. Written nearly 30 years ago as an exercise in producing a Mills &Boon romantic page turner it morphed into something else....

The first agent I tried took it on but failed to interest a publisher and as I was then of a tender age and easily discouraged my characters languished in script in a shoebox for the next couple of decades. Hitting a Big Birthday, I won't say which one, I decided to shake the dust off it and try again. Hence the self publishing course I did last year. See my blog on this

 https://bake-a-yarn.blogspot.com/2024/10/self-publish.html

The story is set in Blackrock, Co Dublin some time between 1980 and 2005, my secondary school teaching era. It does travel as far as Lamb's Head, Caherdaniel, Co Kerry and the cover photograph was taken there by me on one of my sojourns. 

The plot follows the antics of three members of the teaching staff of Seapoint High, a fictitious school, and also the carry-on of some of the school kids, teenagers whose behaviour I was familiar with first hand! 

 The book is available to purchase on Amazon. Follow link and do leave a review if you decide to purchase.

Amazon-Don't Rule me Out

Skellig Michael taken from Lamb's Head Caherdaniel, Co Kerry